


Bloodlust

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: All her life, the only thing that's been praised more than her gentle kindness is her beauty; it seems impossible that cold brutality could bring more fire to her blood than any sweet words or stolen caresses have ever managed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: Harry/Sansa, turned on by violence - watching Harry kill Petyr turns Sansa on.

It's catching sight of herself in the looking glass that brings Sansa back to herself, back from this person she'd no idea she could be. All her life, the only thing that's been praised more than her gentle kindness is her beauty; it seems impossible that cold brutality could bring more fire to her blood than any sweet words or stolen caresses have ever managed.

And yet here she is, the image of Harry pushing Petyr's broken, bloodied body through the Moon Door still fresh in her mind as she stares at herself in the mirror over Harry's shoulder and shamelessly begs him _harder, deeper, more, more more._

The stone wall is cold and rough against her back. She'll have bruises come the morrow, perhaps even scratches. She doesn't care. She finds she wants them, marks that for the first time she's gotten on her own terms, not from punishment or torment but from her own desire. Her own ruthlessness. From finally taking her future in her own hands. Harry thinks he'll marry her, the poor boy. He thinks the only power Sansa has over him is found in her cunt. He's never thought to worry about her mind.

He hitches her legs up, changing the angle of his cock inside her and making her hiss at the mingling of pleasure and discomfort. She may have lost her maidenhead to him a moon's turn before, the first piece of her plans that led to this night with Harry falling upon her lustily even as Petyr's body fell through the sky, but this is still new to her and her body has much yet to adjust to. She meets her own eyes again in the looking glass, shocked and pleased at how wild she looks, how base and wanton. A trickle of red on Harry's back catches her eye; blood, drawn by her own nails. Blood like that which decorated Petyr's face and hands before he fell -before Harry pushed- , clashing horribly with his garish clothing. A giggle wells in Sansa's throat at the thought. Dead. He's dead and gone, like Lysa before him. He'd looked at her as he fell, his face creased with confusion and dismay. Just like Harry, he'd never worried about her mind either, right up until she betrayed him and let him die at the hands of his own carefully cultivated tool. The memory of it is so delicious, it tips Sansa up and over the precipice of pleasure. Harry's back grows slippery with blood as her nails pierce his skin with the strength of her grip. She wraps her legs around his hips and urges him into her with her heels. It doesn't even feel good, the relentless pounding of his body on hers, yet somehow it feels better than anything she's ever felt before. Amazing, how different such things can feel when they're something she chooses for herself.

He spills inside her, panting against her neck and blubbering like a babe that he loves her. Sansa strokes fingers streaked with his blood through his hair, idly, her thoughts on how discreetly she can acquire moon tea on the morrow.

"I've bloodied you," Harry murmurs, catching her hand to examine it, not realizing that the blood he sees is his own. His cock softens within her. It's a strange thing to feel. She'd never thought to imagine what happened at the end, only at the beginning. "I should have washed after I-" He trails off. He'd never thought himself a violent man before, Sansa knows. She takes his hand in hers, pushes it inside her bodice to palm her breast, Petyr's blood mingling with Harry's own making his hand slip and stick. Sansa imagines his fingers wet with Petyr's blood, pushing through her maidenhair and curving inside her. Her cunt throbs with renewed vigor and she moans, pulling Harry against her even harder.

"Later," she tells him. "Much later." If he thinks her sudden lust strange, he makes no mention of it, nor does he ask any questions. He's never been much for questions at all; it's one of his best qualities. It's what makes him useful.


End file.
